


The Ways of Tea and Failure

by hearmerory



Series: Change of Address [9]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angry Zuko (Avatar), Autistic Zuko (Avatar), Blue Spirit Zuko (Avatar), Child Abuse, Crazy Azula (Avatar), Developing Friendships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Found Family, Friendship, Gay Zuko (Avatar), Homophobia, Hurt Zuko (Avatar), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self Harm, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, Iroh (Avatar) is a Good Uncle, Iroh (Avatar) loves Tea, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Mental Health Issues, Mentioned Ozai (Avatar), No Explicit Violence, Ozai (Avatar) Being a Terrible Parent, Ozai (Avatar) is an Asshole, POV Iroh (Avatar), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Iroh (Avatar), Recovery, Theater Nerd Zuko (Avatar), Zuko (Avatar) Angst, Zuko is an Awkward Turtleduck, Zuko's Childhood (Avatar), Zuko's Scar (Avatar), inaccurate legal proceedings, institutionalization, past Jet/Zuko
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26666731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearmerory/pseuds/hearmerory
Summary: The boy was convinced, with the kind of terrified fervor that could only come from harsh words and painful blows, that every action he took, every thought he had, every impulse he forgot to suppress, was somehow a failure.Was somehow rude, or disrespectful, or wrong.Was somehow worthy of punishment.So Iroh made tea. And made space. And made plans.Iroh loves tea, and loves Zuko. Not necessarily in that order.
Relationships: Azula & Iroh (Avatar), Azula & Zuko (Avatar), Iroh & Ozai (Avatar), Iroh & Zuko (Avatar), Ozai & Zuko (Avatar), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Series: Change of Address [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1928572
Comments: 87
Kudos: 982
Collections: Finished111





	The Ways of Tea and Failure

**Author's Note:**

> We needed softness post whatever the fuck Ozai's Love was. Here it is! It's still angsty, but that's kind of a given at this point.

When Iroh brought his nephew home from the hospital, white gauze cushioning half of his head, he made tea.

Before he’d even shown the boy his new room, or taken him on a tour of the little house, he’d sat him down at the kitchen table and put tea in his hands.

As a very small child, Zuko had liked jasmine. So Iroh made up a pot, and hoped with his entire heart that it would thaw the boy out enough to speak.

Iroh didn’t think he’d head a lucid word out of the child since the burn.

“Here you go,” he said, keeping his voice light and soft. “I hope your appreciation for tea has grown since you were small.”

Zuko flinched.

Iroh held his tongue, internally chastising himself. He couldn’t say anything that could even remotely come off as a criticism.

“It’s alright if you don’t like it,” he smiled, “I can always add some honey.”

After all, no matter how sacrosanct tea may be, his nephew’s comfort was thousands of times more important. If he had to put honey in tea, it was a worthy sacrifice.

Zuko’s eye flicked to his face, clearly trying to read his intentions, and he nodded. Once.

Iroh rejoiced, and showed nothing on his face. He stirred a spoonful of honey into the cup, and handed it to the boy.

Zuko wrapped both hands around the cup, like he was trying to suck all the warmth out of it.

Iroh settled down in the chair opposite him and poured his own tea.

“We can take the bandages off tomorrow,” he filled the silence after a few long moments. Zuko didn’t respond. “You don’t have to go back to school until you’re ready. You can take your time.”

Another single nod.

Iroh sighed.

This was going to be difficult.

But Iroh was patient. And, to the bone, he was a strategist. He just needed the right strategy.

* * *

The right strategy, it turned out, was the slow and creeping introduction of kindness into his nephew’s life.

He couldn’t go too far too fast. The boy shied away from attempts at touch, and positively blanched at too kind words.

He had to start small. Much, much smaller than he would have liked.

Routine was what really did it.

Every single day, after the boy got home from school, they would share a cup of tea.

This was their time, and they could spend it however they wanted.

Iroh made it clear that Zuko did not have to start his homework the second he walked in the door. He did not have to shut himself in his bedroom and be silent until dinner. He did not have to do chores. He did not have to change clothes, or shower, or do anything at all, before he’d had his tea.

Iroh felt the twisting of anger and shame each time he had to remind his nephew of the new rules.

Each time he gently corrected a _sir_ to an _Uncle_.

Each time he soothed him down from nightmares and had to promise that there would be no punishment in his house for screaming.

Each time he reminded Zuko that he didn’t need to hear a list of indiscretions at the end of each day.

And Iroh raged at the stupid, tiny things the boy confessed, his voice trembling with fear of punishment. _I failed to hold eye contact with Mr Yong today, sir. I got overexcited and my hands tapped, sir. I lost focus for a moment in math, sir._

Iroh wished, more and more, that he was still the man he’d been in his youth. That he was still the man who would have stormed his brother’s house and beaten the other man into remorse.

And he _hated_ , with passion he hadn’t felt since his son had died, how Ozai had poisoned his own son’s mind.

How Ozai had turned their own father’s teachings of respect into an excuse to beat the boy senseless for speaking his mind, or looking at him wrong. How Ozai had twisted their father’s mantras — we were so lucky to be born — into weapons against the fragile little soul.

The boy was convinced, with the kind of terrified fervor that could only come from harsh words and painful blows, that every action he took, every thought he had, every impulse he forgot to suppress, was somehow a failure.

Was somehow rude, or disrespectful, or wrong.

Was somehow worthy of punishment.

So Iroh made tea. And made space. And made plans.

* * *

Even though he’d seen it dozens of times in the hospital, when it was fresh and leaking, Iroh still winced when he took the bandages off for the final time.

The scar was huge.

Red and purple bled into almost black char around the boy’s eye, narrowed with swelling.

Iroh’s stomach clenched with second hand pain as his nephew blinked at the light of the small living room.

“How is your vision, nephew?” He asked softly, never raising his voice to even full speaking volume when his hands were near him.

He leaned back into the couch, reaching for his tea and gripping it tightly in his hands to stop them from reaching out and yanking the boy into a hug.

Zuko looked around the room, his scarred eye tracking slightly slower.

“I can see,” he said quietly.

“The doctor said that some vision loss was to be expected,” Iroh encouraged, “are you having any trouble with sharpness, or color?”

Zuko blinked, his gaze returning to the floor.

Iroh sighed. Ozai had never forgiven weakness.

“It’s... functional,” Zuko hedged, a ragged exhale audible in the quiet room.

“There are many ways to overcome reduced vision,” Iroh tried to smile, “we can learn techniques to help you compensate.”

“I... I don’t need...” Iroh’s heart twisted again as tears formed in Zuko’s good eye.

“It’s alright,” he soothed, “it’s not a weakness.”

The tears spilled, racing down unscarred skin.

“I’m sorry!” The words ripped viciously from Zuko’s throat, “I’m sorry! It’s all blurred, and grey, and I can’t see anything at the side. I’m sorry!”

“Oh nephew,” Iroh wanted desperately to reach for him, to pull him into a tight embrace. “It’s alright.”

Suddenly, the child was standing, his fists clenched and the pale side of his face reddening.

“It’s not!” Zuko roared, pulling further away, “it’s not alright! Nothing will ever be alright! How can I... how am I supposed to... how can I make him love me if I can’t even _see_?”

Iroh’s heart broke.

“You do not need to make him love you,” he choked out. “Zuko, you don’t need to—”

“Shut up!” Zuko screamed, a wild look of fear and rage contorting his face, “Shut up! I hate you! Don’t you say a _word_ against my father!” Zuko’s voice cracked, and tremors shook his body. “He’ll take me back,” he rasped, “he’ll forgive me, and he’ll love me.”

Iroh closed his eyes, sadness aching in his chest.

“He’ll take me back,” Zuko begged.

“I—” Iroh wanted to disagree. Wanted to bodily shove that thought out of his nephew’s head. But he couldn’t bring himself to crush the hopeful insistence in the boy’s eyes. “I’m sure he will,” Iroh whispered. “Of _course_ he loves you.”

 _Coward_ , his mind supplied.

* * *

Iroh didn’t put together Zuko’s plan for earning back his father’s affections until it slapped him in the face.

He’d noticed before, of course, how the boy’s eyes flitted away from eye contact unconsciously until he realized what he’d done and stared intently into Iroh’s eyes for far longer than normal.

It was disconcerting, those long, long seconds of intense eye contact. Like Zuko was trying to read his soul.

He’d caught Zuko, once, practicing conversations in the mirror, acting out both parts of what should have been casual greetings.

He’d seen him sitting on his hands to stop them moving.

He’d even intercepted a covert trip back from the library, and found a dozen books on human interaction and a dog eared copy of a children’s book on how to make friends in his school bag.

But it wasn’t until he found the knife, the edge stained with just a couple of drops of blood, that he realized just how seriously Zuko was taking his mission.

The confrontation had gone poorly.

Iroh berated himself for hours afterwards for not taking more time to gather his feelings before talking to his nephew.

He had shouted, and broken his first rule in caring for Zuko.

Never raise your voice. Never raise your hand. Never criticize. Never accuse. Never show pity. Never disparage Ozai. Never mention Ursa. Never suggest that living in his spare room was a permanent arrangement.

They were, generally, fairly easy rules to follow. He was good at restraining himself, good at hiding his feelings.

But the sight of a small smear of blood in the sink... the sight of a knife stashed away in the back of the medicine cabinet...

He had shouted.

He had grabbed the boy’s arm and yanked up his sleeves, searching for wounds.

He had snapped, harsh and vicious, that he would _never_ be allowed to do that again.

And the boy ran.

It took almost an hour of frantic searching before Iroh found him, sitting cross legged in the grass in the exact spot where Iroh had found him last. Where he had found him, sprawled out on the ground, a fresh burn covered in mud and blood, a cell phone clutched like a lifeline in his limp hand.

Iroh swayed where he stood, relief and horror and sadness pulsing through him.

“Zuko,” he breathed, approaching slowly. When the boy looked up at him, eyes red and swollen, he sat down, folding his legs underneath him. “Zuko, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted at you. You didn’t deserve that.”

Zuko looked back down at his knees, his lip quivering.

“I’m so sorry,” Iroh clenched his hands in his pants, desperate not to react harshly.

Zuko didn’t speak.

“Please, tell me what you were trying to accomplish. Why you would—” Iroh broke off to choke on air, “why you would hurt yourself.”

“He... he said I could come home,” Zuko whispered, sadness wafting from him, pulsating in the space between them. “He said I could come back, if I learned to be normal.”

Iroh crumpled, resting his head in his hands.

He thought of all the little habits, all the little things that had always worried him in his nephew’s behavior. The social misunderstandings. The tantrums over food, and clothes, and people touching him. The odd fluttering and tapping of his hands.

The boy was never going to be normal, no matter how hard he tried.

“Zuko. You are an exceptional person,” Iroh kept his voice steady. “You are kind, and good natured, and I would never want you to change the things that make you special.”

“It’s not _special_ ,” Zuko hissed, “it’s rude, and obnoxious, and _wrong_! I... I don’t deserve for him to forgive me, but he will! He will, if I fix it!”

Iroh felt his own lip quivering, and tightened his jaw. He would be of no help if he broke down himself.

“There’s nothing to fix,” he said quietly.

“There _is_! I’m... I’m broken!” Tears slid down his unmarked face.

“Nephew, I’m sure... I’m sure that there are things we can work on, together. Strategies that can make your life easier, things we can do to help you be happier. But that’s true of everyone. You are no more broken than anyone else. It is your _father_ who is—”

“Father is right!” Zuko yelled, “Father is always right, and he _said_! He said I could come home!”

“Oh Zuko,” Iroh couldn’t stop the quaver in his voice.

“Just stop,” Zuko begged, the edge of hysterical anger strengthening, “stop trying to make me give up! I won’t! I won’t stop!”

“Then let me help,” Iroh countered, “allow me to guide you.”

Zuko faltered.

“You’d... you’d help?”

“Of course. Of course I’ll help.”

* * *

Iroh was just about ready to throttle whatever excuse for a therapist his brother had employed to be complicit in his systematic campaign to destroy his son.

Zuko sat before him, trembling and pale, with his hand held out. As though he was waiting for someone to _hit_ him.

Because he hadn’t known what position to sit in to meditate.

Iroh wanted to scream. He wanted to throw things. He wanted to drive over to Ozai’s ridiculously large house and hit and hit and hit until his skull caved in below his fists.

He breathed, and sipped his tea, nudging Zuko’s cup towards him.

The boy looked up in surprise, and slowly lowered his hand. Iroh nodded encouragingly, keeping his muscles loose and relaxed, refusing to shake with the anger that felt all encompassing.

He took another sip.

“I hope you know, nephew, that I will never, ever hit you. It is an abhorrent display of dishonor to hurt a child.”

Zuko blanched.

“I meant no disrespect,” he said quickly, almost tripping over the words. Iroh cursed his brother.

“You were not being disrespectful,” Iroh smiled.

“I didn’t mean to imply that you... that you would act dishonorably.”

“It’s quite alright, my boy. I took absolutely no offense. But please try to remember that you will not be hurt in my house. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Zuko wilted into himself, wrapping his arms around his chest.

“Uncle,” Iroh reminded him softly. “Now, would you like to begin?”

“Yes, sir. I—I mean, yes, Uncle.” Zuko ducked his head.

“Good boy,” Iroh nodded. “Now, if you would please cross your legs in front of you, and rest your hands in your lap?”

Zuko arranged himself into position, glancing at Iroh to make sure he was doing it right.

“Good. Now close your eyes, and take a deep breath.” Zuko bit his lip, and his hands clenched unconsciously into fists. “Is something the matter, nephew?”

“I... I don’t want to close my eyes,” he said softly, and his hand twitched as though he was preparing to offer it back up to be hit, but he restrained himself.

“Then please, leave them open. If it is alright with you, I will close my own.”

Iroh closed his eyes without waiting for confirmation. If Zuko did not feel safe enough to have his own eyes closed, then he did not need to be watched as he tried something new.

“Now, we will take in a deep breath,” Iroh demonstrated, “and let it out. Breath is life, Zuko, and we must nourish our bodies with what they need. We give ourselves food, and water, air and shelter. We must also give our bodies respect, and forgiveness. Another breath. In... and out.”

Zuko’s breaths were shaky, barely in time with Iroh’s instruction, but they were deep.

Slowly, Iroh felt the column of frustrated anxiety opposite him settle into something more relaxed.

“Good. Now, we will explore our bodies. Our bodies hold the keys to our minds, and our souls. The body holds all of our tension, and fear, and hatred. But it also holds our love, and our happiness. We must listen to our bodies, so that they can tell us what they need. Pay attention to your feet. Feel them against the ground, comfortably resting between the wood and your leg. Tense the muscles slightly, just enough to feel them contract. And now release them. Feel the heaviness in your feet as they relax. Allow your feet the time and space to simply be feet. They do not have to carry you anywhere right now. There is no journey they must take you on. No task they must perform. Your feet have no responsibilities beyond continuing to be feet.”

Iroh continued up their bodies, tensing and relaxing muscles until they reached the tops of their heads. He did not open his eyes to check on Zuko’s progress, but he listened carefully to his breathing. Slowly, it evened out, falling into the same pattern as Iroh’s.

“Now that our bodies are relaxed, it is time to look inwards. Our feelings are contained within our bodies. Perhaps the stomach holds fear, the heart joy, the head anger. Perhaps it feels different in your body. That’s fine. We’ll take another deep breath, in... and out. We can settle our selves inside our bodies. We are in control. Feel around your body, and find a feeling. Wherever you feel most strongly, follow that feeling, until you find its source. Have you located a feeling, Zuko?”

Zuko hummed quietly, and Iroh did not open his eyes.

“Good. I have also located a feeling. Mine is strong at the base of my spine. Where do you feel your feeling?”

“J-just behind my eyes,” he whispered.

“Very good. Now, we will give this feeling a name. Allow it to reach out to you. Allow yourself to feel its edges, its sharp points, its curves. Allow it to tell you what it is. When you know what the feeling is, name it. You can say it out loud, or only in your head.”

Zuko was silent.

“Alright. Once you have named your feeling, reach out, inside your body, and hold the feeling. Hold it gently. It is a part of you. This part of you will always be there. You will always feel this. But you are in charge. Your body is your own. Hold the feeling like a small pet. Something precious. It is because of this feeling that you can feel everything else. The whole cannot exist without its parts. Hold it carefully, and breathe.”

Iroh modeled deep breaths, and followed his own guidance, carefully collecting up the tight bundle of terror and rage in his body and holding it gently.

“When you feel that you have a hold on this feeling, welcome it into the rest of your body. Allow it to spread, like water across a rock. The rock does not absorb the water, but allows it to flow freely over itself. Allow the feeling to flow. As it flows out of your hold, name it again. Feel your feeling passing through your body. Let it drip into all the secret places inside your body. Nowhere needs to be kept dry. Nowhere needs to be protected from this feeling. The feeling is part of you. It cannot harm you, because it is you.”

They breathed.

“Good, Zuko. Now, we will come out from inside our bodies, slowly and carefully. We feel our feet, and our fingers. We feel our arms and legs. Our chests and our backs. We feel all of our muscles, relaxed and happy as our feelings flow within us. Slowly, we open our eyes, and we rejoin the external, physical world.”

Iroh pulled his eyes open, and glanced at Zuko’s heavy blinking. The boy had apparently closed his eyes after all.

They sat in silence for another moment, and Iroh reached for the tea pot, refilling both their cups.

“Why...” Zuko started before glancing away. He hesitated. “Why tea, Uncle?”

Iroh debated for a moment if he should ask his nephew what he had really wanted to ask.

“Tea, Zuko? Tea is simply hot leaf juice. Tea is not special. But, when we put effort into brewing, when we perform ceremony, when we offer warmth and comfort to others, when we pour our spirits into the cup... then tea is everything.”

* * *

Iroh cornered Piandao after the Pai Sho tournament, pushing a fresh cup of tea into his hands. His old friend had a healthy level of skepticism for any plans Iroh might offer up. As young men, their plans had rarely been entirely successful.

“He will make a good student, I assure you. I have never seen a child try so hard in my life. And he has loved swords since he was seven.”

“Can he even see? Out of the eye?” Piandao kept his voice low, conscious of the object of their conversation sitting awkwardly in the corner of the room, a book propped open on his knees as he sat cross legged on a plastic chair.

“There is some vision loss. He says things are blurred, and that colors are muted. I believe he’s lost all peripheral vision in that eye. His hearing has deteriorated also.”

“How is he supposed to fight?”

“You are the master, old friend. I’m certain you can find a way.”

“You say he learned before, as a child?”

“He is adept in several martial arts, and he’s been using dual swords since he was very young, though with no formal training.”

Piandao watched the child, frowning slightly as his foot jogged against his thigh and his hand tugged subconsciously at his hair.

“He’s twitchy, Iroh.”

“He needs a calm and steady hand to guide him.”

“Hmm,” Piandao hummed reluctantly. “Bring him. We’ll see.”

Zuko took to his lessons like a duck to water.

Iroh watched the awkwardness and anxiety just... melt away when Zuko picked up the swords.

His body calmed immediately, all jerking, tapping and flapping ceasing the second he started running through his first set of katas.

Iroh caught Piandao’s eye and had to hold in a full belly laugh.

* * *

Iroh had had him for two years before Zuko confessed that he still loved the theatre.

Within days, Iroh had prime row seats for Love Amongst the Dragons at the city theater to give as a birthday gift.

Iroh spent the car ride to the theatre saying nothing, a smile growing across his face as he listened to his nephew recite the entire second act monologue from memory.

Zuko sat at perfect military attention throughout the performance, his face flushed with pleasure at every scene.

He was absolutely reverent.

And he nearly died of overwhelming happiness when Iroh bought him the Blue Spirit mask from concession stall.

Much later, far past Zuko’s usual bedtime, Iroh was still sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea and listening to what felt like at least act three of Zuko’s dissection of the play.

He had never heard his nephew talk this much, or gesticulate so energetically and precisely.

He had something to say about every single scene. Every costume choice, every lighting design decision. Every prop, every intonation in every actor’s voice.

He scowled at the missed line in the Emperor’s speech. He gave exorbitant praise to the Empress’s actor, vividly describing her facial expressions as she’d realized the pivotal choices she had to make to save the day.

Iroh was in awe. If he’d known it would be this easy to make Zuko talk for four hours without even pausing for breath, he would have taken the boy to the theater years before.

“And just... thank you, Uncle,” he came to the end of his analysis, flushed with joy and enthusiasm. “Thank you for taking me.”

“It was my absolute pleasure, nephew. I could not be more happy that you enjoyed yourself so much.”

Zuko ducked his head.

“And I’m sorry for talking so much, I just—” Iroh put up a hand to stay him.

“I enjoyed your dissection even more than I enjoyed the play. You have a passion, and a gift. That is something we should never take for granted, nor waste.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” he bowed slightly in his seat, taking another gulp of tea. He made a face and put down the cup.

“Did you let your tea go cold again?” Iroh chuckled, filling up the cup. “Let this be your last cup before bed.”

Zuko nodded and took back his tea.

“And Zuko, I have another surprise for you.”

Just for a moment, he saw Zuko’s face fall, a flicker of fear moving through his eyes. But the next second he was smiling nervously, his expression open with anticipation.

“It’s a good surprise, I promise. I asked Piandao to recommend you to one of his colleagues at the city theatre, and they have agreed to accept you into their acting and stage combat camp this summer. It’s only for two weeks, but if you enjoy it, then they have agreed to have you for lessons throughout next school year.”

Zuko stared, his mouth slightly open.

“Acting?” He whispered.

“Acting,” Iroh confirmed.

“On... on a stage?”

“I believe that’s where they act, yes. They even have a performance for guardians at the end of the summer.”

“Acting?” He blinked.

“Yes, Zuko. Acting.”

“And... and stage fighting? Real, choreographed fights? With... with swords, like the Dark Spirit?” He seemed to have stopped breathing.

“I didn’t ask for details, but I believe so.”

“And... and they... they know? About me?” He brandished one hand up and down his body, as though trying to indicate his entire being, and the other hand reached up to touch his scar lightly.

“Yes,” Iroh said gently, “they know what an exceptional young man you are growing in to, and how passionate and competent you are in this field.”

“No, I meant—”

“I know exactly what you meant, Zuko, and I decided to answer a much more important question.”

“But they said it was okay?”

“Of course. They are very excited to have you.”

“Oh.” Zuko ducked his head, looking intently down at his knees. Iroh frowned slightly.

“Don’t you want—”

Before he could even finish the thought, Zuko launched himself across the table and landed on the ground in front of his uncle. His arms darted out for wrap around his soft belly, and he buried his head in his chest.

“Thank you,” he gasped, clearly trying as hard as he could to reign in the tears. “Thank you so much.”

Iroh’s throat burned, and he pulled his arms tight around Zuko’s shoulders, holding him close.

“Of course,” he muttered. “I would do anything for you.”

* * *

Iroh wasn’t supposed to be back for another hour when he let himself into his own home.

Zuko was supposed to be doing his homework, so that they would have plenty of time for Pai Sho after sword practice that evening.

Instead of walking in to find the radio playing something vaguely classical and the scratching of pencil on paper, he walked in to shouting.

He did not hear Zuko’s voice.

Immediately on guard, Iroh surged forward, ready to intervene.

“I wouldn’t want to be seen anywhere near a freak like you anyway! Don’t fucking contact me again, okay? And you’ll keep your mouth _shut_ if you know what’s good for you.”

The boy slammed open Zuko’s bedroom door just as Iroh reached it, and pushed past him.

“You’ve got yourself a fucked up kid, old man,” the boy spat, running his hand agitatedly through his hair, a toothpick sticking out between his lips.

“Get out of my house,” Iroh growled, drawing on his younger years to intimidate the boy out of his sight.

Iroh waited until the front door slammed before going into his nephew’s bedroom.

Zuko was huddled in the corner on his knees, his face pressed into the wall. His body shook, and his hands were splayed out on the cool plaster on either side of his head.

Iroh held in his hiss of distaste.

Zuko wasn’t wearing a t-shirt, and the scratch marks down his back were as unmistakable as the dark hickey on his shoulder and the light, tiny bruises on his hips.

“Zuko? He’s gone, nephew, he won’t be coming back.”

Zuko didn’t reply, but his body slumped slightly, as though he’d been holding himself tightly.

“Are you able to come to me, nephew?”

Slowly, Zuko stood, wrapping his arms around his chest and taking steps towards his Uncle like he was heading for his own execution.

Iroh was well practiced at pushing down his anger, and he was glad of the years of almost daily training that allowed him to show absolutely no emotion on his face.

Zuko looked up at him, focusing his gaze somewhere at Iroh’s shoulder. He had a split lip, a small bruise already darkening at the corner of his mouth.

That boy must have _slapped_ him.

Iroh bristled.

Zuko had been hurt. Under his roof. He had _sworn_ that that would never happen.

“Come and have some tea with me, Zuko,” Iroh said calmly. He reached for his nephew’s discarded hoodie and handed it over. Zuko slipped it on over his head and rested his hands into the soft pocket across his stomach.

They went to the kitchen together, and Zuko did not speak.

He didn’t answer when Iroh asked who the boy was. Didn’t answer Iroh’s calm inquiries about his feelings. Did nothing more than nod when Iroh offered him an ice pack and a painkiller.

Iroh did not mention that he knew what he and the boy had been doing.

He wondered later if he should have made it clear how little it mattered.

* * *

Iroh’s best subject in school had been mathematics. The same was absolutely not true of Zuko.

The boy slogged through hours of homework, and Iroh was convinced that none of it was supposed to take even half that time.

He steadfastly refused to accept his uncle’s help, however, insisting that Iroh was a foolish old man who couldn’t possibly understand.

Iroh always laughed at his accusations, and at his growling pout when he worked out he was being laughed at, and gently suggested ways he could work on the problems more efficiently.

It wasn’t until a few weeks before the end of the year, when the boy was overworking himself to the point of tears with finals, that he finally caved and asked for help.

Working together, with Iroh carefully guiding him towards choosing the correct formulae to apply, they finished math in twenty minutes, and Zuko collapsed into a stress induced puddle in front of a cup of tea and a game of Pai Sho.

Iroh half regretted helping him for the rest of his life. A well earned B in sophomore year mathematics could have saved them all a lot of pain.  
  


* * *

Iroh followed him around his room as he packed his bag.

Zuko was studiously ignoring him, picking up each of his belongings and setting them down, occasionally placing something into his single backpack.

“I won’t take my calligraphy set,” he said quietly, placing it back on his desk, which was strewn with homework and art supplies.

“Zuko, please reconsider,” Iroh tried again, for what felt like the hundredth time.

“No, Uncle,” Zuko snapped. “I will not reconsider. I’ve wanted this for _years_.”

“Please,” Iroh groaned, not above begging, the fierce weight of dread pressing in on him from all sides, “look at you! You’re deliberately leaving behind any possession that brings you joy. You’re not taking your art. You’re not taking your swords, or your mask. You’re leaving your scripts. Are you worried your father will destroy your possessions?”

“I just don’t want anything to get damaged, or lost,” he said defensively. “It’s not because of Father.”

“Of _course_ it is! You are protecting your belongings because you think your father will break them.”

“I’m not!” Zuko snapped, carefully placing a small figurine of a blue dragon back on his book shelf.

“Zuko, please, don’t go back there. Remember what he did to you, the last time you lived with him. Remember the pain you went through to get to this stage in your life.”

“But that’s the whole _point_ , Uncle!” Zuko swirled on him, “I have suffered! And I’ve learned! Even you said I was better now. Piandao says I’m good enough to compete with the adults. Mikayako said I could join her troupe full time after school if I wanted. They wouldn’t say those things to me if I wasn’t better.”

Iroh ran his hand down his face, stuck between the rock of telling Zuko that his father would not care about these accomplishments, and the hard place of reminding him that he was quick to return to the quirky behaviors his father hated so much as soon as he was under stress.

And Iroh had no doubt of the stress the boy would be under if he returned to his father.

“Listen... you have shown so much courage. You have learned so much. But you must understand that Ozai’s idea of love, and strength, and power are not for you. The kind of redemption he offers you is not the kind you need. You have done _nothing_ wrong. You do not need his forgiveness.”

“Shut up!” Zuko pointed an accusing finger in Iroh’s face, and Iroh saw the desperation, the fear, in his eyes as he raged. “You don’t know what you’re talking about! He says he wants me! He says I can go home!”

“Zuko, listen to me!” Iroh shouted. Zuko went immediately silent with shock. His uncle never shouted. “If you have never listened to a word I have said, at least listen to this. You do _not_ need what he is offering you. You have everything you need here. You are loved, and wanted, and celebrated _here_. Please, Zuko, don’t go back to him.”

“You don’t understand!” Zuko spat. “He is my _father_!” He went quiet. “I have to go back. I have to _know_.”

The fight left them, and Iroh sagged against the weight of the future.

They shared a pot of jasmine tea in silence, and then Zuko was gone.

* * *

Iroh had not vomited when he was called to identify the body of his son in the morgue.

He had not vomited when he had watched the nurses change the bandages on Zuko’s burn, and seen flesh peel away, foul smelling fluid leaking from festering skin.

When he skidded into the hospital room to find his nephew, lying perfectly still on the bed, his face pale and thin, covered from head to toe in bruises and looking for all the world as though he had already died, Iroh finally gave in to the urge.

It was obscene.

The boy looked almost emaciated, the old burn scar sagging slightly over his skull, the bones in his hands too visible under papery skin.

And Spirits... the state he was in. Black, blue, purple, green, yellow, red bruising all across his side like ugly paint splatter, bandages taped across most of his back, tight wrappings on his ribs. His entire face swollen and unrecognizably bruised.

The heart rate monitor beeped irregularly. Electrical burns smeared across his chest.

Iroh flung himself into the bathroom and gagged into the toilet, tears streaming down his face.

The overwhelming feeling of failure crashed into him like an inescapable wave, pushing him under and drowning him.

This was his fault. He had failed.

* * *

Before Iroh even had the chance to leave Zuko’s side for long enough to start gathering paperwork and evidence and lawyers to ensure that the boy never had to speak to his father again, the completed paperwork was in his lap.

The lawyer stood over him as he read.

Signing the documents would grant him full custody of both children. It would grant all three of them a very reasonable restraining order. It would transfer hundreds of thousands of dollars into savings accounts for the children, and a significant sum into his own account for their care. And it would rob him and the children of the opportunity to bring charges to a criminal court.

Everything would be settled in a civil suit, that Ozai was paying for.

Part of Iroh wanted to tear up the whole thing. To bring down the full force of the law on his brother and watch his life burn.

But his desire to kick the sick bastard in the mouth was less than his desire to see the children safe, and with him.

Reluctantly, he signed. And, other than a two minute visit that Ozai managed to sneak in with Zuko before he left the hospital, he was gone from their lives.

* * *

Zuko was panicking, and Iroh desperately wished he wasn’t the one bringing all the stress into his hospital room. But decisions had to be made. And even though Zuko wasn’t going to be making them, he still needed to be informed.

“She shouldn’t have to go to some kind of asylum just because of me!” He shouted, closing his eyes tight against the pain.

“She needs help, nephew. She confessed to me that she’s been hearing voices. She says the voices tell her to _hurt_ people! To hurt you, specifically. I cannot allow her to sink deeper into this black hole.”

“It’s not her fault!” Zuko’s face screwed up with the effort it took to yell. “She’s not crazy!”

“I don’t believe your sister is crazy,” Iroh placated, “but she does need help. The people at this facility will help her. She’ll have the opportunity to recover, to start to heal from the deep wounds your father inflicted on her mind.”

“She doesn’t deserve to be locked up!” Zuko’s stamina was waning quickly, his arm braced across his ribs, sweat rolling down his forehead. Iroh glanced up at the monitors. His heart rate was way too high.

“Where would you have her go, Zuko?” He asked gently. “You would have her stay with Ozai?”

“N-no!”

“Good. Then perhaps you would like her to stay with me?”

Zuko’s breathing sped up.

“Of course, I only have the two bedrooms, so the two of you would have to share,” Iroh hated this. He hated what felt like baiting his nephew. “How would you feel about that?”

“I... I...” Zuko pressed his forearm against his eyes.

“How do you think _I_ would feel about that? About leaving the two of you alone together when she almost killed you?”

Iroh put valiant effort into keeping his tone smooth and comforting, even when he wanted to panic and rage and strangle the life out of his idiot brother.

“I... I don’t...”

“Perhaps I could just... ignore her? Leave her in the world to fend for herself, just as your father tried to do to you, when he gave you that scar? She’s a whole year older than you were then, I’m sure she’d be fine.”

“N-no,” Zuko’s chest heaved, and Iroh hated. He hated himself. He hated his brother. He hated the spark of insanity he’d seen in Azula’s eyes. He hated the terror making his nephew’s heart monitor beep even faster, the irregularity biting in his ears.

“Zuko...” Iroh softened his voice further. “My boy. I cannot house her without risking you.” Iroh held up his hand as Zuko geared up to protest. “And even if you were not a factor in my decision, I cannot personally help Azula right now. She needs more help than I am capable of providing.”

“But if I just... if I go, you can help her,” Zuko pleaded.

Iroh shook his head sadly.

“Your safety is, and will always be, my first priority. I will not allow your sister into _our_ home while we cannot be sure that she won’t harm you. And she needs help I can’t give, Zuko. She almost committed _murder_ on the instruction of a hallucination.”

Iroh watched as Zuko slumped back against the bed. The monitors settled slightly as he gave up.

“It’s... it’s a nice facility, right? She’s not going to be... restrained or electrocuted or anything?”

“Absolutely not. They have horseback riding.”

“Okay,” Zuko closed his eyes and slid back down until his head rested on the pillow. His voice faded as he drifted into the fog of pain killers and exhaustion. “I trust you, Uncle.”

* * *

The institution felt nothing like the asylums from horror movies that Iroh was sure Zuko had imagined. It was a large, sprawling house, set in a huge plot of land. As they walked up the drive, they saw small groups of young people in the gardens. It felt peaceful.

Iroh’s battery operated water heater was confiscated at the door, but he was allowed to take a stovetop kettle to the kitchen and boil the water before they saw Azula.

Zuko and Iroh sat shoulder to shoulder in the visitors’ room waiting.

Azula flung open the door, her face a thunderous mask of rage.

“Are you here to take me home?” She spat as soon as they came in to view.

“Good morning, Azula,” Iron said warmly. “Please, come and join us for tea.”

“I don’t care about your stupid tea! When am I going back to Father?”

“I’m sorry, niece, but you will not be returning to your father. When you are ready to leave this place, you will come to live with Zuko and I.”

“I will not,” she drew herself up to her full height and sneered. “You can’t keep me here, and you can’t force me to stay with you.”

“I’m afraid your father has agreed to a restraining order, which will not allow him to be near you. You cannot go back to living with him.”

“That’s not true. Father would never do that.”

“I’m sorry, Azula.” Iroh sighed. The girl snarled at him, baring her teeth and leaning into his space.

He would have allowed it, but Zuko stiffened next to him, shying away from his sister.

“Your therapist tells me you’ve been enjoying spending time on your artistic endeavors?” Iroh leaned towards Azula, closing the gap and forcing her to back away.

Azula’s face twitched in what could have been anything from an agreement to a declaration of war.

“Would you like to see?” She asked after a second’s pause. Iroh did not like the look she threw Zuko, who was visibly flagging already, but he agreed as enthusiastically as he would have ten years ago.

She disappeared to her room for a few minutes, and came back with a single piece of paper.

She slammed it down on the desk between Zuko and Iroh.

They stared at it for a moment, but Zuko spoke before Iroh could tear it up and throw it far, far away from his nephew.

“Is... is that...” Azula grinned at the horrorstricken look spreading over her brother’s face.

Zuko pulled the paper towards him, running a finger along the gouges and tear marks from where the pencil had been pressed through the page.

A stick figure was horizontal on what had to be assumed to be the floor of the picture. It was surrounded by a large red circle, the paper creased from the power put in to coloring.

Jagged yellow lines came out of the stick figure.

Blood and lightning. And a stick figure Zuko, dead on the floor.

Zuko passed the drawing back and stood up, his body shaking with fatigue.

Iroh knew better than to hold him upright in front of his sister.

Azula didn’t speak as they walked away.

“I’ll be back, niece. I promise,” Iroh nodded to her as they walked away from the room.

She only scoffed.

* * *

Three weeks later, Iroh went to see Azula alone, as he had done every couple of days since she had moved in.

She looked better. She’d showered. She’d clearly been eating. Maybe she’d even been spending time outside.

Slowly, she pulled her cup of tea towards her, and took a sheet of paper from her pocket, placing it in front of Iroh on the table.

“Would you give this to Zuko for me?” She asked quietly as he unfolded it.

The drawing was bad. But merely in the sense that the fourteen year old had no natural affinity for artwork, rather than having a subject matter that made Iroh want to cry.

Carefully colored in blues, greens and browns, Azula had drawn an approximation of a duck in a pond.

She had even signed it at the bottom.

“Of course I will,” Iroh smiled softly.

Zuko tacked the drawing to his headboard that night, and Iroh saw him touch it on his way into bed.

* * *

Iroh didn’t quite know how it had happened, but his nephew’s friendship circle had suddenly doubled overnight.

Well, Iroh wasn’t quite sure that a group of old men and his institutionalized sister counted fully as a friendship circle anyway.

One day, Zuko’d had nothing to do in an evening but play through his set of memorized strategies on Pai Sho nights, and the next, he was heading out of the door with the blue eyed boy from the tea shop.

Iroh couldn’t help being a little wary, especially after the weeks Zuko had spent being so sad after that other boy had walked out.

But, slowly, it seemed that he was integrating with an entire group of people his own age. His stories of his day over tea shifted subtly from anecdotes about his teachers to jokes about his friends.

The main feature, of course, of all of the stories, was Sokka.

Iroh just wished that Zuko would tell him they were dating. It was so clear, so wonderful, how his nephew’s eyes lit up whenever he thought about the boy.

Iroh couldn’t help the niggling, painful fear that he was missing some aspect of Zuko’s experience. That there were things Zuko hadn’t talked to him about.

Over the years, he had listened to Zuko as he had recounted hundreds of instances of abuse.

Or _punishment_ , as he insisted on calling it, even though Zuko could rarely remember what he had supposedly done wrong.

But he’d barely spoken about the six months he’d spent back at his father’s home.

Iroh tried to remind himself that it had taken over a year for Zuko to start disclosing things after the burn. It would take time.

He just... couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing.

When Sokka had been picked up by his sister after the boys’ first sword lesson, Zuko was absolutely silent.

He trialed silently along behind Iroh all the way back to their home, his shuffling steps reminding Iroh of those first few weeks he’d had the boy, when everything had been new and terrifying.

They sat down for tea, and Zuko was shaking.

“What’s the matter, nephew?” Iroh frowned, nudging his cup towards him.

Zuko dropped his face into his hands.

“D-did you... did you see?” He whispered, his voice taut with fear.

“Did I see what?” Iroh frowned slightly. Zuko shook his head almost frantically, and his hands tugged at his hair. “I saw you being an excellent teacher. I saw your student pick up several of the moments surprisingly quickly. I saw that the two of you are close.”

Zuko tugged harder at his hair, and let out a low moan.

“Zuko, is this about the kiss you shared?” Iroh kept his voice soft and warm. 

He let go of his hair and hit his forehead down on the table, wrapping his arms around his head protectively.

That was enough of an answer for Iroh.

“Nephew, please listen to me. I would never, ever begrudge you love, or happiness. There is absolutely nothing wrong with finding that love and happiness with another man.”

Zuko shuddered, burying his face even further into the table.

“I am so, so proud that you have come to know this part of yourself.”

The boy made a strangled choking sound that could have been a sob.

“It’s wrong,” he mumbled into the table. “It’s wrong, and disgusting.”

“It is _not_.” Iroh was firm. “No part of you could ever be wrong or disgusting.”

“He said...”

“And what do we say when we think of your father?” Iroh wrestled down another wave of anger.

“It... it was cruel,” Zuko whispered. “It was cruel, and it was wrong.”

“Exactly. You love strongly, and fiercely, and brightly. There is no way that your love could be bad.”

Zuko sobbed, his shoulders heaving as he clutched at his head, his legs bouncing wildly under the table. His breath spluttered in devastation, and Iroh ached miserably for him.

They sat for a while, and the only sound in the room was Zuko’s sobbing.

Iroh tried to silently guide his breathing, but the boy was too far gone into whatever inner debate he was experiencing. Iroh knew to wait, knew to give him space to tell.

Zuko choked on his tears, refusing to raise his head from where it was still resting on the table, his arms still protecting him.

Out of nowhere, the words came, and Iroh’s world stopped.

“He touched me, Uncle,” Zuko gagged on a vicious sob, the confession ripping from his chest like it physically hurt him to say. “He touched me!”

Iroh shattered.

Slowly, he sank out of his chair onto the ground, trying to breathe through the pain in his chest. His baby brother. The wild child, with his scraped knees and dirt smudged face. With his booming laugh and gentle hugs. With his slow descent into cruelty and hatred. His baby brother had hurt people. Had hurt the boy sobbing at his kitchen table. Had _touched_ him.

“Zuko,” Iroh’s voice cracked, and the boy looked up from the table, his eyes red and wet with tears. “Zuko, I am so sorry.”

Zuko shuddered, and more tears spilled.

Iroh fell backwards from the impact of his nephew’s body careering into his. He grasped bony shoulders, and held the boy close to him in his lap as he broke.

Iroh had never heard noises like the ones Zuko was making.

Agonized cries gave way to wails of grief and pain.

His long limps curled up into a tight ball in Iroh’s lap, and he clung to his uncle like a lifeline. Like his hands, wound tight into Iroh’s clothes, were the only things anchoring him to the world.

“I’m so sorry, nephew. I wish I could have spared you that.”

Zuko’s breath came in ragged, stuttering pulses, and his body collapsed even further into his uncle’s grip.

“I asked him to stop,” Zuko forced out between sobs, “I begged him to stop and he _wouldn’t_!”

“It was cruel,” Iroh started the mantra, hoping desperately that his nephew could find the strength to finish it.

“And it was wrong,” he buried his face into Iroh’s chest, and cried.

* * *

There was no point in expecting any work from Zuko during his Wednesday afternoon shifts.

He still put on his apron, and spent ten minutes diligently pretending to not be looking at his friends, but as soon as he was sent out to them with their drinks, he was gone.

The little group came every single week. They did homework, or played board games, or laughed and talked a little too loudly for a quiet tea shop. Iroh loved them.

He loved how his nephew seemed to visibly push aside whatever cruel words played in his head when he was around them.

He loved how slowly and gently Sokka got him used to casual displays of affection.

He loved the quiet, almost reverent kiss that landed on his nephew’s scar whenever he joined the table.

He loved the happiness that seemed to radiate off the boys and flow around the entire tea room. He loved that that happiness seemed to stay with Zuko longer and longer after his friends left each time.

He loved how, slowly, Zuko seemed to accept that his idiosyncrasies were part of him, something that didn’t need to be changed or beaten out.

He loved the way Sokka’s hugs changed depending on the mood.

He loved the way Katara put her hand around his wrist every week to check he was eating enough.

He loved the way that Toph would put her feet in his lap to keep him settled whenever she felt his heart beat off course.

He loved the way Aang sucked Zuko up in energetic stories.

He loved the way they all listened, gentle smiles on their faces, when Zuko started spouting theatre facts, or explaining new sword moves he was mastering.

He loved that they never pushed his hands down when they fluttered, or tilted his head to look them in the eye.

He loved the way that they didn’t give up on touching him when Zuko flinched away.

He loved that this meant he got dozens more hugs from the boy.

And he loved the awkward, bumbling way Zuko would serve them tea, explaining that, when you pour your spirit and warmth into the cup, tea is everything.


End file.
